


Currying Favour

by addyke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring, Friendship, Gen, Paternal Lestrade, Post-The Empty Hearse, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3586521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addyke/pseuds/addyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's first serious case for NSY since his return, Lestrade realises that his friend is struggling with being back. Sometimes Sherlock Holmes needs looking after, even though he denies it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Currying Favour

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock' (and let Steve Thompson to play in their sandbox.) Like Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson, I tend to shamelessly nick things from ACD's original canon. I am making no money whatsoever from this.
> 
> Beta by the ever patient Kizzia, who also came up with the title.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade felt like he had aged 10 years in the past two weeks. What started as an apparently simple murder investigation had become a multi team effort, his unit now working with teams from both Organised Crime and Fraud, all because his victim turned out to be Nancy Worthington, who had recently blown the whistle on a major counterfeiting ring. This meant that Lestrade was acting as mediator between two Detective Inspectors renowned for the animosity between them.

Jason Bradstreet, from Fraud, was a grumpy old cynic, two years away from retirement, and God, was he going to make everyone else suffer it along with him. He never did play well with others, but Caroline MacDonald tended to compound the issue.

Organised Crime's MacDonald was known to everyone as Mac and not her tongue, temper nor Aberdeen accent had been softened by her twenty years in London. Lestrade actually liked working with her, in small doses at least, but even those were not welcomed when Bradstreet was in the vicinity; they were an explosive combination.

When two more bodies turned up, killed in the same manner but adding nothing else to the case, Lestrade decided he was a masochist, and requested the assistance of the newly returned from the dead Sherlock Holmes. Apparently he never wanted to live to see his pension anyway.

The addition of Sherlock to any investigative team could often lead to a lot of bruised egos but it also tended to jump-start any case going stale from lack of evidence. Hence Lestrade ignoring both Mac’s and Bradstreet’s loud (and in rare agreement) dissenting voices and sending him a brief, to the point, text. John Watson’s look of gratitude when he and Sherlock arrived at the Yard confirmed the other reason Lestrade had pushed the point; Sherlock clearly needed this case, much more than his ego would let him admit.

So Lestrade put up with Sherlock’s remarks about general incompetence, Mac’s foul mouthed responses and Bradstreet’s snide comments regarding Sherlock’s past habits, not just because he wanted to catch his murderer, but because he still felt some responsibility for helping Sherlock rebuild the reputation he had played a part in ruining.

Or gang of murderers as Sherlock very quickly figured out. Two of whom, Thomas Biddle and Graham Hayward, were in custody within thirty-two hours of his first deductions, allowing Lestrade to keep his dignity intact despite Bradstreet wanting Sherlock back off the case as soon as possible. They crumbled quickly under interview, confirming that a third man, Charles Moffat, was involved and of course, they had no idea where he was currently hiding out. After getting everything he could from the men, Sherlock returned to frantically pacing the evidence room, interview tapes on loop as he searched for the tiniest clue as to the location of the third gang member. This was not helping the sanity of the rest of the team.

The whole drama ended as it usually did - Sherlock Holmes running off across the city, with John closely behind and Lestrade cursing him for yet again not waiting on something as trivial as an arrest warrant. At least John had the sense to call with the details so Lestrade could follow with a squad car, reinforcements and the correct paperwork.

Moffat was cornered near the tracks outside Euston station. And upon hearing the approaching sirens and realising he could never outrun the consulting detective or the police, he had two options - come quietly, or not come at all...

Lestrade arrived just in time to watch him jump in front of the incoming 19:34 from Wolverhampton; an action that Lestrade didn't appreciate for many reasons, the least of which was that he now had to deal with the British Transport Police on top of Bradstreet, Mac, the Chief Superintendent and Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.

He certainly didn't appreciate the long, insufferable phone call from the Professionalism Commissioner, looking for reassurance that everything was above board as he’d let that “curly-haired lunatic” back into the building.

By the time that unpleasantness was over and he’d emerged from his office, he realised that the mood of the CID had relaxed somewhat. They still had paperwork to do, reams of it - and it would get done, eventually – but right now there was something more important to attend to. Their stomachs. 

‘Lestrade! I'm ordering from the Taj!’ Mac shouted from one of the cubicles. ‘What do ye want?’

Lestrade didn’t hesitate. ‘Mmm - lamb biryani, thanks.’ Five days of vending machine cuisine had been more than enough.

Bradstreet was looking rather smug with himself. He handed Lestrade his coffee mug.

‘You never make people coffee,’ Lestrade said, not bothering to keep the shock from his voice.

Bradstreet grinned. ‘I may have added a little secret ingredient.’

Lestrade took a sip of his coffee and returned the smile. Rum. No doubt from Bradstreet's infamous secret stash.

It had been an exhausting case; now all they had to do was dot the i's and cross the t's and hope that the CPS didn't cock it up. Which was out of their hands completely so, for a few minutes at any rate, all was right with the world. Except ... 

Lestrade scanned the room again just to make sure. No, he wasn’t just so tired he wasn’t seeing straight. The man who helped them to finish it wasn’t there. He could see John, though, who was pulling on his jacket and getting ready to go.

‘Heading off, John?’ Lestrade called.

‘Yeah, gotta run. I'm supposed to be taking Mary out, and we've rescheduled this a few times already.’

‘That fiancée of yours has the patience of a saint.’

‘She doesn't really mind.’ John stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘Look Greg, could you do us a favour?’

‘Of course. What's up?’

‘Can you make sure Sherlock gets home? Gets something to eat, goes to bed? You know.’ John tried to keep his request light but his eyes belied his concern.

‘He's not changed then? Still does the whole not eating and sleeping thing?’

‘Unfortunately not. He hasn't slept since this started.’

‘Right.’ Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder. ‘Consider it done. Where is he?’ 

‘Going over the interview tapes again. Thanks for this.’

‘Anytime! Say hello to Mary for me.’ 

‘Will do.’

As he headed over to the evidence room he realised Sherlock had barely said a word since leaving Euston and had disappeared the moment they’d set foot back in the Yard. He had thought nothing of it. Even Sherlock Holmes was bound to be a little shaken up by watching someone jump in front of a train, especially now. 

Lestrade walked into the evidence room unannounced but Sherlock didn't notice, or at least didn't acknowledge his entrance. He was pacing in front of the evidence boards (he had rearranged everything on them, again), Hayward's interview playing in the background. The fingers of his right hand tapped out a familiar sequence as he muttered to himself.

Lestrade usually found watching Sherlock at work mesmerising - the way his body language spoke just as much as his words did. But now he was just concerned. Sherlock's spark wasn't there; his movements were jerky and agitated and his eyes roved around the boards as he tried to make a connection.

He was obviously exhausted.

‘John told me you were still here.’ Lestrade said, leaning against the wall.

‘Both of you have the infuriating habit of stating the obvious.’

‘He also said that you haven't slept in a couple of days.’

‘I don't sleep whilst I'm working...’

‘... or eat. I know. Not good for you.’

‘Unless you have some new information, go away and let me work.’

‘On a case that we wrapped up several hours ago? I don’t think so.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Hayward and Biddle are in custody.’

‘Moffat stepped in front of a train.’

‘Yes. I was there. You couldn't have done anything, he made that decision for himself.’

‘No, that decision was made for him ... he was protecting his employer.’

‘Employer?’ Lestrade tried to process this new information. ‘And why would he kill himself to protect them?’

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than he realised what he had said.

‘That’s what I'm trying to work out. And if you’re not going to contribute, just shut up and let me get on with it!’

‘Sherlock, why? Why are you so convinced that there is some mastermind behind this?’

‘There has to be. It's the only explanation that makes any sense.’

Lestrade wanted to argue against finding logic in a man's suicide but quickly stopped himself. He was talking to the man who watched Moriarty eat his own gun before having to stage his own death in front of his best friend.

‘There isn't always going to be some great scheme behind every crime, Sherlock. Even the most complicated of cases.’

‘I used to think that, Lestrade. Didn't give him enough credit. He ran rings around everyone and no one noticed. No one paid any attention to the possibility that someone was pulling the strings. Not even me, not until it was too late. Not until he’d caught us all up in his game.’

Lestrade looked at him, at the hunched shoulders and the pinched expression, and understood. Sherlock believed that, had he looked deeper, he would have seen Moriarty’s overarching scheme earlier. And that might have left him with a few more options than the one he’d ended up with. 

Lestrade may not have been as quick as Sherlock, but even he got there eventually. Between John’s worry and this insistence on a higher power behind the case, it was plain that Sherlock was struggling. He had come back to find so many things had changed, and was desperately trying to prove that he was the same, that he was just as invaluable as he was before. 

Sherlock was still working on the evidence boards, taking down photos, switching post it notes, moving some only to put them back a moment later. Lestrade went over to him, gently prising the documents from Sherlock's hands and placing them on the nearest table. Up close, Sherlock looked even worse. The fluorescent lighting was undoubtedly harsh but the contrast between his pale skin and the grey shadows under his eyes was startling. His lips were dry and chapped - leading Lestrade to conclude that not only had Sherlock not been eating or sleeping, he probably hadn't been drinking enough either – and his movements lacked their usual, graceful coordination. It took several fumbling attempts for Sherlock to put his hands in his trouser pockets as he tried to fix Lestrade with a look of distain. 

‘Sherlock, even if you are right, and there is someone else involved...’

‘I'm always right, Lestrade.’

‘What about that time in Norbury...?’

‘An aberration.’

‘Well you’re about to make another one, the state you're in. Have some dinner and go to home to your bed, to sleep!’

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

‘No. This is my case and I’m telling you to leave it for an evening. Everything in here will be exactly as you left it, so tomorrow morning you can look at it with a clear head.’

‘Are you kicking me out?’ Sherlock's words sounded like a challenge. Just try it, I dare you.

‘I'm doing a lot more than that. I'm driving you home.’

‘No. John and I will get a taxi.’

‘John's already left, mate. Something about dinner with-’

‘Mary.’ Sherlock completed the sentence with an air of inevitability. ‘I'll get a taxi. I'm perfectly capable of making my own way home.’

‘Not in this state, you're not. I know you. Some new insight will strike that you’ll not be able to resist chasing there and then and you’ll end up doing yourself an injury, falling under a bus or something. And that is not happening. Not on my watch.’

‘One death by public transport is enough for tonight.’

Lestrade burst out laughing at Sherlock's morbid sense of humour. ‘Exactly. So nice of you to agree with me for a change. Now come on.’

As Sherlock put on his coat and scarf, Lestrade smiled to himself at this sign of concession. Sherlock made his way slowly out of the room, leaving Lestrade to stop the interview recording and turn off the lights. Once they had emerged, Lestrade locked the door behind them as Sherlock slipped into the gents.

‘Dinner's here!’ Mac shouted, just as Lestrade’s nose twitched at the fragrant aroma wafting around him. 

The paperwork had been unceremoniously shoved to one side to move room for the impromptu buffet. Somebody had retrieved a pile of chipped plates and some mismatched cutlery from the staff kitchen and everyone had descended on the food like hyenas on carrion. Mac was making a particularly sarcastic comment to Bradstreet, who had piled his plate high and still decided to carry away a whole naan bread in his mouth.

‘I think he's made off with half your biryani.’ Mac pointed to Bradstreet with her thumb as Lestrade handed her his share of the money for the feast and waited for the crowd to clear.

Lestrade laughed as he put the lid back on the remains of his meal. 

‘Any of this going spare?’ he asked.

‘I think the chicken korma is.’

‘Perfect,’ Lestrade said, packing up the containers into a plastic bag, along with a naan bread and a handful of poppadoms.

‘You leaving us to do all the paperwork, Greg?’ Mac laughed.

‘Nah, just giving Sherlock a lift home. Be back in an hour.’

‘He did some good work on this case. I'm impressed.’ Mac's tone suggested that she was more shocked by this than impressed.

‘Do us a favour, Mac. Tell him that.’

‘And feed the boy's ego anymore? You must be joking! His head is bloody big enough as it is.’

Lestrade sighed. Of course Mac didn't know how many cases Sherlock never took any credit for, none of them did. Sherlock was a show-off but it was his skills and intellect that he needed to show-off. As far as the actual glory was concerned, Sherlock was happy to sneak off quietly into the shadows, John by his side.

‘But give me his number - I might need his help again,’ Mac said, ‘you never know. If I'm desperate!’

Sherlock had emerged from the toilets, and was watching the feast from the sidelines. He was cataloguing everything from people's exact eating habits to the very nuances of their interactions. Lestrade figured out a long time ago that Sherlock, proud of his scientific thinking, applied the theory that the observation of an experiment changes the outcome to the dynamics of society around him. By minimising his interactions on the purely social, purely emotional level with people, he was trying to ensure his own observations were as accurate as possible and his judgement was not clouded by factors like sentiment. In Lestrade’s opinion, riddled with sentiment, Sherlock had only truly reached his potential once he allowed a few exceptions to that rule.

He was glad to count himself as one of those exceptions, though it would be nice if Sherlock at least tried to remember his first name.

‘Ready to go.’

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Lamb biryani, chicken korma. The Royal Taj, judging by the spicing proportions but I could be wrong - they have changed the recipe recently. However it is one of the closest takea-’

‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade interrupted, ‘stop deducing your dinner.’

Sherlock went to open his mouth but Lestrade stopped him in his tracks.

‘You need something to eat, just like you need to go home and get a full night's sleep.’

‘I do wish you and John would stop teaming up against me.’ Sherlock quipped but the fact he was now following Lestrade out to his car showed his compliance.

Sherlock sunk into the front passenger seat, furiously tapping at his mobile, still unable to turn off from the case.

Lestrade fastened his seatbelt and checked his mirrors. He sat with his key in the ignition, looking pointedly at Sherlock, refusing to start the car. Sherlock didn't notice, or at least pretended not to.

‘Seatbelt.’

Sherlock looked up from his mobile, protest on the tip of his tongue.

‘Seatbelt, Sherlock.’ Lestrade wasn't about to argue. ‘I'm not starting the car until you put it on.’

Sherlock fastened his seatbelt with an air of great reluctance, and immediately went back to his mobile, sending off one last message before the phone's battery gave up with a bleep.

Lestrade pulled out of the quiet multi-storey car park. He didn't attempt to make conversation with Sherlock as he drove through the city. No need for small talk or social niceties with a man who had absolutely no time for them. He was nearly at Baker Street when he looked again at his passenger, and was surprised to find him fast asleep, head leaning against the passenger-side window. Sherlock was obviously even more exhausted than Lestrade had suspected, because Sherlock was not one to let his guard down like that outside the comfort of his home, especially when not in John's company.

For a long time, Lestrade couldn't always tell what side of right or wrong Sherlock would come down on; he always seemed to be walking the tightrope over the grey area between the two. John tended to steer him towards the path of the righteous but it was only now Lestrade finally realised that the truth in his own prophecy; Sherlock Holmes was a good man, as well as a great one.

‘You did good today, kid.’ He muttered as he turned into Baker Street.

Sherlock choose this moment to wake from his slumber.

‘I do not need nor expect your praise, Lestrade,’ he said through a yawn.

Lestrade nodded sadly as he pulled up in front of 221B and turned off the engine.

‘Doesn't mean that you don't deserve to hear it,’ he said, twisting to face Sherlock who was still slumped in the passenger seat, ‘that we don't need to say it every now and again.’ 

‘We?’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘Surely you're aware of your colleagues' blatant dislike of me. Not even you are that obtuse.’

‘You're not the easiest bloke to get on with and you know it.’ He agreed. ‘But you do good work for us, and every officer you have ever worked with would have admit it.’

Sherlock openly laughed with derision.

‘Okay, point taken. A few of them‘d have to swallow a lot of pride to do it. I’m not denying that some of them think you're more paperwork than you're worth but...’

‘Please don't feel to the need to speak for other people.’ Sherlock suddenly gathered enough energy to undo his seatbelt and clamber – albeit gracelessly - out of the car. ‘I do not need your well-meaning lies. Good-night Lestrade.’

Lestrade grabbed the takeaway bag and followed, locking the car remotely. Sherlock was struggling with his keys and dropped them on his second attempt to open the door.

‘What I'm trying to say is ... thank you.’ He followed Sherlock up the front steps, rescuing the keys before Sherlock could gather himself to bend down. ‘And it's good to have you home.’

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to formulate an answer, the look of confusion making Lestrade’s heart constrict. He didn’t let it show on his face.

‘C'mon, the food's going cold,’ he said instead, getting the door open and ushering Sherlock inside. ‘Let's get it into you before you fall asleep on the stairs!’


End file.
